\ aTY^ . 


Oi\  tKe 

Magdalena  River 


The  Woma.n*s  Boacrd  of  Foreign  Missions 

of  the 

Presbyteriatn  Church  in  the  U.  S.  A. 
156  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York  City 


On  the  Magdalena  River 

Seen  on  a trip  from  Barranquilla  to  Bogota,  Colombia 
Ellen  A.  Tompkins 

OUR  first  stopping  place  after  leaving  Barranquilla  on  November  29th, 
■was  at  Calamar,  a quaint  little  country  town.  All  along  the  banks  were 
drawn  up  queer,  old  fashioned  river-rafts.  The  roofs  over  these  are 
thatched  with  cattail  rush,  and  the  river  man  and  his  family  live  here.  The 
next  morning  we  passed  a great  stretch  of  what  looked  like  a giant  corn- 
patch.  It  proved  to  be  a banana  field.  We  saw  them  loading  wood  at  a little 
village ; it  was  cut  in  kitchen  stove  lengths,  and  the  wood-boys  from  the  boat 
ran  down  the  gangplank  with  gunny-sacks  fastened  on  their  heads,  at  one 
end  like  a monk’s  hood,  and  the  other  hanging  down  long  behind.  They 
were  loaded  up  with  great  piles  of  wood,  which  came  up  over  their  heads  and 
which  were  fastened  with  a strap  at  one  end  and  the  loose  end  of  the  sack 
at  the  other.  It  was  feat  of  balancing  to  keep  it  from  falling  down. 

On  December  11th  the  blue  mountains  of  Antiochia  came  into  view.  Anti- 
ochia  is  a prosperous  state.  The  houses  are  all  tiled,  not  thatched.  The  cows 
are  all  white,  because  there  is  an  insect  here  that  attacks  dark  cattle.  It 
is  a splendid  grazing  country,  and  many  cattle  and  horses  feed.  Medellin  is 
situated  in  a cup  between  hills  on  every  side ; we  arrived  there  safe  and  sound, 
and  after  the  meeting  we  took  a long  trip  to  Amaga  on  the  railroad,  straight 
up  into  the  mountains.  There  are  many  coal  mines,  and  the  mining  is  done 
by  the  women.  When  they  pick  out  the  coal  they  fill  great  gunny-sacks, 
and  fasten  them  about  their  heads  with  bands  of  sacking  or  coarse  rope,  and 
tug  with  them  up  the  hill  to  the  railway  station. 

We  left  Medellin  in  time  to  get  to  Puerto  Berrio  for  Christmas.  There  is 
no  railway  over  the  high  part  of  the  mountains,  and  this  trip  is  worth  remem- 
bering. The  auto  road  winds  until  you  can  see  yourself  coming  back.  We 
passed  two  women  who  were  evidently  lepers.  They  were  shut  up  in  a 
pen  just  off  the  roadside,  and  fenced  in  with  barbed  wire.  Here  they  begged 
alms.  They  may  have  been  professionals,  but  they  looked  like  lepers.  Some- 
times they  are  given  a choice  between  a leper  home  and  being  penned  up 
away  from  others.  They  were  wretchedly  loathsome  creatures. 

We  set  sail  from  Puerto  Berrio  on  a ship  called  the  “Barranquilla,”  and 
had  a wonderful  two  days’  trip,  through  jungles  more  tropical  than  ever.  We 
left  this  boat  at  La  Dorado,  and  took  the  railway  to  Beltran,  where  we  changed 
to  an  upper  river  boat,  as  the  rapids  had  been  passed  by  our  trip  by  rail. 
This  trip  up  the  upper  river  was  wonderful. 

The  river  is  very  narrow,  and  the  mountains  are  very  near.  At  a most 
lonely  spot  in  the  river’s  bend,  just  at  dusk,  we  spied  a white  flag  waving 
against  the  dull  gray  sand,  a child  and  a woman,  and  lo,  the  man!  He  was 


going  away  in  all  his  glory,  with  loads  of  hides,  and  a set  of  oars,  and  a 
host  of  bundles,  and  a tiplee  (kind  of  guitar),  headed  for  goodness  knows 
where,  but  out  for  a lark.  One  wondered  about  the  woman  and  the  child. 
Do  they  ever  leave  the  place?  Probably  not.  The  Colombian  man  is  monarch 
of  all  he  surveys.  He  eats  his  meals  in  peace  and  alone,  and  the  women  and 
children  can  only  eat  after  he  is  finished.  The  child  is  probably  as  wild  as 
the  wild  birds,  and  as  shy.  There  are  countless  such. 

And  now  began  our  steady  climb  to  Bogota.  At  a little  distance  from 
La  Esperanza,  but  much  higher,  is  the  town  of  Cach-a-py,  in  English  “Catch- 
a-pie.”  There  were  no  pies,  but  more  pineapples  than  I ever  saw  before  in 
my  life.  It  is  a queer  little  town,  with  a church  built  after  the  manner  of 
the  mission  chapels  in  California.  It  is  very  old.  The  priest  has  a small 
mansion  next  door,  and  was  sitting  out  enjoying  the  excitement  of  the  train 
arrivals.  The  Andes  are  here  in  earnest,  and  gave  an  impression  of  climbing 
straight  up.  And  yet,  on  looking  back  we  saw  great  vistas  of  plain  and  moun- 
tain peak,  and  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  not  on  an  incline  at  all.  We  wound 
round  and  round  the  mountain,  and  one  vista  is  like  nothing  so  much  as 
pictures  of  the  Colorado  Canyon.  It  lies  to  your  right,  tier  on  tier  of  moun- 
tain peaks  rising  one  behind  another,  and  so  broad  that  you  cannot  trace 
it  all  from  end  to  end.  On  we  sped,  past  vales  and  hills  where  cattle  browsed, 
and  now  and  then  a house  with  a homey  little  garden  reminded  one  that  to 
some  this  is  home.  At  Facatativan  (where  we  changed  cars)  the  stubbornness 
and  lack  of  cooperation  on  the  part  of  mankind  was  revealed.  The  track  from 
here  on  is  a different  gauge  and  the  broad  gauge  could  not  go  on  up  the  moun- 
tain, so  it  necessitated  change  of  freight  and  passengers,  and  a double  set 
of  cars  and  engines. 

Tired,  cold  and  hungry,  we  arrived  in  Bogota  at  eight  o’clock.  At  seven 
A.  M.  coffee  was  served  us  in  bed,  a Bogota  custom.  It  seems  very  invalid- 
like, but  in  Bogota,  custom  is  custom,  and  law  is  law,  and  custom  is  law, 
and  law  is  custom.  Men  kiss  each  other  when  they  meet  on  the  street,  trains 
and  street  cars  wait  for  farewells  to  be  said,  you  are  deliberately  hugged  by 
your  enemies  as  well  as  your  friends,  for  convention’s  sake,  and  everything 
one  does  is  a glitter  and  show  of  sentiment,  a sentiment  that  does  not  exist 
at  all.  SHAM ! SHAM ! Imagine  asking  a storekeeper  for  permission  to 
leave  his  store,  even  though  I knew  he  had  skinned  me  and  it  was  high 
time  I was  getting  out.  Imagine  a man  refusing  to  tell  a customer  he  had 
not  paid  the  whole  of  his  bill,  “Because  it  would  not  have  been  polite  to 
have  told  you,  Senor !”  Imagine  standing  on  a street  corner  for  ten  minutes 
to  go  through  the  formula  of  greeting  that  does  not  mean  a whit  more  than 
our  daily  “How-do-you-do.”  And  you  always  embrace  the  women  to  whom 
you  are  introduced,  and  if  you  meet  a man  for  the  first  time,  he  puts  himself 
entirely  at  your  orders. 

December  31.  This  is  a great  place.  The  home  of  the  Presbyterian  Girls’ 
School  in  Bogota.  Last  night  we  imagined  the  stealthy  tread  of  priestly  in- 


truders ! An  ancient  convent  frequented  by  the  ghosts  of  departed  sisters ! 
What  a place  to  sleep ! This  convent  is  built  right  on  the  side  of  a church, 
and  there  are  secret  passages  between.  One  part,  that  opens  right  on  to 
the  girls’  patio,  has  a sleeping  room  for  student  priests  built  on  top  of  it, 
and  they  put  out  the  window  lights  to  gaze  into  the  patio.  The  lower  part 
is  joined  to  the  Presbyterian  property,  and  belongs  to  the  church,  so  they 
had,  according  to  Colombian  law,  a right  to  build  on  top  of  it.  There  is  also 
a roof  garden  on  the  opposite  side,  and  from  this  all  of  the  girl’s  school  can 
be  seen.  It  is  a hard  place  to  keep  discipline.  Another  queer  thing  is 
a pile  of  loose  brick,  which  partially  conceals  a large  hole  between  the  building 
proper,  and  a large  alcove  behind  an  archway  in  the  church.  For  what  was 
this  used?  No  doubt  as  a place  for  the  sisters  to  sit  during  service,  as  they 
could  not  enter.  This  was  a nunnery  from  which  there  was  no  getting  out 
after  you  once  got  in.  Another  hole  was  discovered,  which  led  from  the 
servant’s  quarters  into  the  church.  There  had  been  some  sort  of  communi- 
cation, but  the  servants,  upon  being  questioned,  feigned  ignorance  of  the 
very  existence  of  the  hole.  Up  in  the  left  is  a direct  entrance  way  to  the 
priests’  quarters.  It  supposedly  has  iron  bars  at  the  nether  end.  One  night 
this  year  a terrible  commotion  was  heard  above.  The  next  morning,  plaster 
was  found  to  have  fallen  on  the  floor  in  all  the  rooms  beneath  this  attic 
passageway.  The  police  were  called,  and  found  bars  broken  from  the  en- 
trance, and  while  claiming  it  had  not  been  opened,  said  that  the  stairway 
from  the  attic  to  the  third  story  should  be  closed  on  this  end  next  to  the 
girls’  property,  to  be  quite  sure  of  safety.  How  much  sleep  do  you  think 
one  would  get  while  running  a girls’  school  in  this  convent.  There  are  no 
outside  windows  except  those  opening  on  the  patio,  which  is  in  the  shape 
of  a parallelogram.  Many  are  the  curious  little  rooms,  and  spooky  are  the 
low-ceilinged  dormitories.  What  a place  for  an  Edgar  Allan  Poe  to  wield 
his  pen ! . . . 

On  a trail  in  the  mountains  we  found  a mudwalled  house.  A little  girl 
bade  us  enter.  In  one  corner  was  a rude  shape  of  a bed  made  of  rough  sticks, 
the  covering  was  an  unspeakably  filthy  blanket,  and  it  was  not  spread,  but 
piled,  upon  the  bed.  The  little  girl  was  proud  of  the  house.  She  said  it  was 
new.  We  looked  at  the  dingy  dirt  walls,  and  dingy  dirt  floors;  at  the  little 
pile  of  bricks  on  which  a fire  lay  in  one  corner,  at  the  black  iron  pot  in  which 
a meal  was  boiling.  We  spied  a dirty  circle  of  pineapple  on  a saucer.  Over 
in  the  place  of  honor  on  the  side  wall,  hung  th^  Virgin  Mary.  What  scenes 
the  Virgin  Mary  must  look  upon!  She  is  everywhere!  Deep  down  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  on  the  highest  hill,  and  in  the  homes  and  hovels  of  the 
rich  and  poor.  Then  our  thoughts  come  back  to  the  little  girl,  not  more  than 
ten  years  of  age,  who  is  so  proudly  showing  us  her  home.  She  can  neither 
read  nor  write,  and  is  guiltless  of  brush,  comb,  or  soap. 

There  is  nothing  like  such  a trip  for  an  eye-opener  of  the  heart  of  fanat- 
ical Colombia. 


Price  3 cents 


1922 


